the master of morley court and the little gentleman in bottle-green—the baronet's daughter—and the two conspirators.
encounters such as those described in the last chapter were, it is needless to say, much more common a hundred and thirty years ago than they are now. in fact, it was unsafe alike in town and country to stir abroad after dark in any district affording wealth and aristocracy sufficient to tempt the enterprise of professional gentlemen. if london and its environs, with all their protective advantages, were, nevertheless, so infested with desperadoes as to render its very streets and most frequented ways perilous to pass through during the hours of night, it is hardly to be wondered at that dublin, the capital of a rebellious and semi-barbarous country—haunted by hungry adventurers, who had lost everything in the revolutionary wars—with a most notoriously ineffective police, and a rash and dissolute aristocracy, with a great deal more money and a great deal less caution than usually fall to the lot of our gentry of the present day—should have been pre-eminently the scene of midnight violence and adventure. the continued frequency of such occurrences had habituated men to think very lightly of them; and the feeble condition of the civil executive almost uniformly secured the impunity of the criminal. we shall not, therefore, weary the reader by inviting his attention to the formal investigation which was forthwith instituted; it is enough for all purposes to record that, like most other investigations of the kind at that period, it ended in—just nothing.
instead, then, of attending inquests and reading depositions, we must here request the gentle reader to accompany us for a brief space into the dressing-room of sir richard ashwoode, where, upon the morning following the events which in our last we have detailed, the aristocratic invalid lay extended upon a well-cushioned sofa, arrayed in a flowered silk dressing-gown, lined with crimson, and with a velvet cap upon his head. he was apparently considerably beyond sixty—a slightly and rather an elegantly made man, with thin, anxious features, and a sallow complexion: his head rested upon his hand, and his eyes wandered with an air of discontented abstraction over the fair landscape which his window commanded. before him was placed a small table, with all the appliances of an elegant breakfast; and two or three books and pamphlets were laid within reach of his hand. a little way from him sate his beautiful child, mary ashwoode, paler than usual, though not less lovely—for the past night had been to her one of fevered excitement, griefs, and fears. there she sate, with her work before her, and while her small hands plied their appointed task, her soft, dark eyes wandered often with sweet looks of affection toward the reclining form of that old haughty and selfish man, her father.
the silence had continued long, for the old man's temper might not, perhaps, have brooked an interruption of his ruminations, although, if the sour and spited expression of his face might be trusted, his thoughts were not the most pleasant in the world. the train of reflection, whatever it might have been, was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, bearing in his hand a note, with which he approached sir richard, but with that air of nervous caution with which one might be supposed to present a sandwich to a tiger.
"why the devil, sirrah, do you pound the floor so!" cried sir richard, turning shortly upon the man as he advanced, and speaking in sharp and bitter accents. "what's that you've got?—a note?—take it back, you blockhead—i'll not touch it—it's some rascally scrap of dunning paper—get out of my sight, sirrah."
"an it please you, sir," replied the man, deferentially, "it comes from lord aspenly."
"eh! oh! ah!" exclaimed sir richard, raising himself upon the sofa, and extending his hand with alacrity. "here, give it to me; so you may go, sir—but stay, does a messenger wait?—ask particularly from me how his lordship does, do you mind? and let the man have refreshment; go, sirrah, go—begone!"
sir richard then took the note, broke the seal, and read the contents through, evidently with considerable satisfaction. having completed the perusal of the note twice over, with a smile of unusual gratification, tinctured, perhaps, with the faintest possible admixture of ridicule, sir richard turned toward his daughter with more real cheerfulness than she had seen him exhibit for years before.
"mary, my good child," said he, "this note announces the arrival here, on to-morrow, of my old, or rather, my most particular friend, lord aspenly; he will pass some days with us—days which we must all endeavour to make as agreeable to him as possible. you look—you do look extremely well and pretty to-day; come here and kiss me, child."
overjoyed at this unwonted manifestation of affection, the girl cast her work away, and with a beating heart and light step, she ran to her father's side, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him again and again, in happy unconsciousness of all that was passing in the mind of him she so fondly caressed.
the door again opened, and the same servant once more presented himself.
"what do you come to plague me about now?" inquired the master, sharply; recovering, in an instant, his usual peevish manner—"what's this you've got?—what is it?"
"a card, sir," replied the man, at the same time advancing the salver on which it lay within reach of the languid hand of his master.
"mr. audley—mr. audley," repeated sir richard, as he read the card; "i never heard of the man before, in the course of my life; i know nothing about him—nothing—and care as little. pray what is he pestering about?—what does he want here?"
"he requests permission to see you, sir," replied the man.
"tell him, with my compliments, to go to hell!" rejoined the invalid;—"or, stay," he added, after a moment's pause—"what does he look like?—is he well or ill-dressed?—old or young?"
"a middle-aged man, sir; rather well-dressed," answered the servant.
"he did not mention his business?" asked sir richard.
"no, sir," replied the man; "but he said that it was very important, and that you would be glad to see him."
"show him up, then," said sir richard, decisively.
the servant accordingly bowed and departed.
"a stranger!—a gentleman!—and come to me upon important and pleasant business," muttered the baronet, musingly—"important and pleasant!—can my old, cross-grained brother-in-law have made a favourable disposition of his property, and—and—died!—that were, indeed, news worth hearing; too much luck to happen me, though—no, no, it can't be—it can't be."
nevertheless, he thought it might be; and thus believing, he awaited the entrance of his visitor with extreme impatience. this suspense, however, was not of long duration; the door opened, and the servant announced mr. audley—a dapper little gentleman, in grave habiliments of bottle-green cloth; in person somewhat short and stout; and in countenance rather snub-featured and rubicund, but bearing an expression in which good-humour was largely blended with self-importance. this little person strutted briskly into the room.
"hem!—sir richard ashwoode, i presume?" exclaimed the visitor, with a profound bow, which threatened to roll his little person up like an armadillo.
sir richard returned the salute by a slight nod and a gracious wave of the hand.
"you will excuse my not rising to receive you, mr. audley," said the baronet, "when i inform you that i am tied here by the gout; pray, sir, take a chair. mary, remove your work to the room underneath, and lay the ebony wand within my reach; i will tap upon the floor when i want you."
the girl accordingly glided from the room.
"we are now alone, sir," continued sir richard, after a short pause. "i fear, sir—i know not why—that your business has relation to my brother; is he—is he ill?"
"faith, sir," replied the little man bluntly, "i never heard of the gentleman before in my life."
"i breathe again, sir; you have relieved me extremely," said the baronet, swallowing his disappointment with a ghastly smile; "and now, sir, that you have thus considerately and expeditiously dispelled what were, thank heaven! my groundless alarms, may i ask you to what accident i am indebted for the singular good fortune of making your acquaintance—in short, sir, i would fain learn the object of your visit."
"that you shall, sir—that you shall, in a trice," replied the little gentleman in green. "i'm a plain man, my dear sir richard, and love to come to the point at once—ahem! the story, to be sure, is a long one, but don't be afraid, i'll abridge it—i'll abridge it." he drew his watch from his fob, and laying it upon the table before him, he continued—"it now wants, my dear sir, precisely seven minutes of eleven, by london time; i shall limit myself to half-an-hour."
"i fear, mr. audley, you should find me a very unsatisfactory listener to a narrative of half-an-hour's length," observed sir richard, drily; "in fact, i am not in a condition to make any such exertion; if you will obligingly condense what you have to say into a few minutes, you will confer a favour upon me, and lighten your own task considerably." sir richard then indignantly took a pinch of snuff, and muttered, almost audibly—"a vulgar, audacious, old boor."
"well, then, we must try—we must try, my dear sir," replied the little gentleman, wiping his face with his handkerchief, by way of preparation—"i'll just sum up the leading points, and leave particulars for a more favourable opportunity; in fact, i'll hold over all details to our next merry meeting—our next tête-à-tête—when i hope we shall meet upon a pleasanter footing—your gouty toes, you know—d'ye take me? ha! ha! excuse the joke—ha! ha! ha!"
sir richard elevated his eyebrows, and looked upon the little gentleman with a gaze of stern and petrifying severity during this burst of merriment.
"well, my dear sir," continued mr. audley, again wiping his face, "to proceed to business. you have learned my name from my card, but beyond my name you know nothing about me."
"nothing whatever, sir," replied sir richard, with profound emphasis.
"just so; well, then, you shall," rejoined the little gentleman. "i have been a long time settled in france—i brought over every penny i had in the world there—in short, sir, something more than twelve thousand pounds. well, sir, what did i do with it? there's the question. your gay young fellows would have thrown it away at the gaming table, or squandered it on gold lace and velvets—or again, your prudent, plodding fellow would have lived quietly on the interest and left the principal to vegetate; but what did i do? why, sir, not caring for idleness or show, i threw some of it into the wine trade, and with the rest i kept hammering at the funds, winning twice for every once i lost. in fact, sir, i prospered—the money rolled in, sir, and in due course i became rich, sir—rich—warm, as the phrase goes."
"very warm, indeed, sir," replied sir richard, observing that his visitor again wiped his face—"but allow me to ask, beyond the general interest which i may be presumed to feel in the prosperity of the whole human race, how on earth does all this concern me?"
"ay, ay, there's the question," replied the stranger, looking unutterably knowing—"that's the puzzle. but all in good time; you shall hear it in a twinkling. now, being well to do in the world, you may ask me, why do not i look out for a wife? i answer you simply, that having escaped matrimony hitherto, i have no wish to be taken in the noose at these years; and now, before i go further, what do you take my age to be—how old do i look?"
the little man squared himself, cocked his head on one side, and looked inquisitively at sir richard from the corner of his eye. the patience of the baronet was nigh giving way outright.
"sir," replied he, in no very gracious tones, "you may be the 'wandering jew,' for anything i either know or see to the contrary."
"ha! good," rejoined the little man, with imperturbable good humour, "i see, sir richard, you are a wag—the wandering jew—ha, ha! no—not that quite. the fact is, sir, i am in my sixty-seventh year—you would not have thought that—eh?"
sir richard made no reply whatever.
"you'll acknowledge, sir, that that is not exactly the age at which to talk of hearts and darts, and gay gold rings," continued the communicative gentleman in the bottle-green. "i know very well that no young woman, of her own free choice, could take a liking to me."
"quite impossible," with desperate emphasis, rejoined sir richard, upon whose ear the sentence grated unpleasantly; for lord aspenly's letter (in which "hearts and darts" were profusely noticed) lay before him on the table; "but once more, sir, may i implore of you to tell me the drift of all this?"
"the drift of it—to be sure i will—in due time," replied mr. audley. "you see, then, sir, that having no family of my own, and not having any intention of taking a wife, i have resolved to leave my money to a fine young fellow, the son of an old friend; his name is o'connor—edmond o'connor—a fine, handsome, young dog, and worthy to fill any place in all the world—a high-spirited, good-hearted, dashing young rascal—you know something of him, sir richard?"
the baronet nodded a supercilious assent; his attention was now really enlisted.
"well, sir richard," continued the visitor, "i have wormed out of him—for i have a knack of my own of getting at people's secrets, no matter how close they keep them, d'ye see—that he is over head and ears in love with your daughter—i believe the young lady who just left the room on my arrival; and indeed, if such is the case, i commend the young scoundrel's taste; the lady is truly worthy of all admiration—and—mdash;"
"pray, sir, proceed as briefly as may be to the object of your conversation with me," interrupted sir richard, drily.
"well, then, to return—i understand, sir," continued audley, "that you, suspecting something of the kind, and believing the young fellow to be penniless, very naturally, and, indeed, i may say, very prudently, and very sensibly, opposed yourself to the thing from the commencement, and obliged the sly young dog to discontinue his visits;—well, sir, matters stood so, until i—cunning little i—step in, and change the whole posture of affairs—and how? marry, thus, i come hither and ask your daughter's hand for him, upon these terms following—that i undertake to convey to him, at once, lands to the value of one thousand pounds a year, and that at my death i will leave him, with the exception of a few small legacies, sole heir to all i have; and on his wedding-day give him and his lady their choice of either of two chateaux, the worst of them a worthy residence for a nobleman."
"are these chateaux in spain?" inquired sir richard, sneeringly.
"no, no, sir," replied the little man, with perfect guilelessness; "both in flanders."
"well, sir," said sir richard ashwoode, raising himself almost to a sitting posture, and preluding his observations with two unusually large pinches of snuff, "i have heard you very patiently throughout a statement, all of which was fatiguing, and much of which was positively disagreeable to me: and i trust that what i have now to say will render it wholly unnecessary for you and me ever again to converse upon the same topic. of mr. o'connor, whom, in spite of this strange repetition of an already rejected application, i believe to be a spirited young man, i shall say nothing more than that, from the bottom of my heart i wish him every success of every kind, so long as he confines his aspirations to what is suitable to his own position in society; and, consequently, conducive to his own comfort and respectability. with respect to his very flattering vicarious proposal, i must assure you that i do not suspect miss ashwoode of any inclination to descend from the station to which her birth and fortune entitle her; and if i did suspect it, i should feel it to be my imperative duty to resist, by every means in my power, the indulgence of any such wayward caprice; but lest, after what i have said, any doubt should rest upon your mind as to the value of these obstacles, it may not be amiss to add that my daughter, miss ashwoode, is actually promised in marriage to a gentleman of exalted rank and great fortune, and who is, in all respects, an unexceptionable connection. i have the honour, sir, to wish you good-morning."
"the devil!" exclaimed the little gentleman, as soon as his utter amazement allowed him to take breath. a long pause ensued, during which he twice inflated his cheeks to their utmost tension, and puffed the air forth with a prolonged whistle of desolate wonder. recollecting himself, however, he hastily arose, wished sir richard good-day, and walked down stairs, and out of the house, all the way muttering, "god bless my body and soul—a thousand pounds a year—the devil—can it be?—body o' me—refuse a thousand a year—what the deuce is he looking for?"—and such other ejaculations; stamping all the while emphatically upon every stair as he descended, to give vent to his indignation, as well as impressiveness to his remarks.
something like a smile for a moment lit up the withered features of the old baronet; he leaned back luxuriously upon his sofa, and while he listened with delighted attention to the stormy descent of his visitor, he administered to its proper receptacle, with prolonged relish, two several pinches of rappee.
"so, so," murmured he, complacently, "i suspect i have seen the last of honest mr. audley—a little surprised and a little angry he does appear to be—dear me!—he stamps fearfully—what a very strange creature it is."
having made this reflection, sir richard continued to listen pleasantly until the sounds were lost in the distance; he then rang a small hand-bell which lay upon the table, and a servant entered.
"tell mistress mary," said the baronet, "that i shall not want her just now, and desire mr. henry to come hither instantly—begone, sirrah."
the servant disappeared, and in a few moments young ashwoode, looking unusually pale and haggard, and dressed in a morning suit, entered the chamber. having saluted his father with the formality which the usages of the time prescribed, and having surveyed himself for a moment at the large mirror which stood in the room, and having adjusted thereat the tie of his lace cravat, he inquired,—
"pray, sir, who was that piece of 'too, too solid flesh' that passed me scarce a minute since upon the stairs, pounding all the way with the emphasis of a battering ram? as far as i could judge, the thing had just been discharged from your room."
"you have happened, for once in your life, to talk with relation to the subject to which i would call your attention," said sir richard. "the person whom you describe with your wonted facetiousness, has just been talking with me; his name is audley; i never saw him till this morning, and he came coolly to make proposals, in young o'connor's name, for your sister's hand, promising to settle some scurvy chateaux, heaven knows where, upon the happy pair."
"well, sir, and what followed?" asked the young man.
"why simply, sir," replied his father, "that i gave him the answer which sent him stamping down stairs, as you saw him. i laughed in his face, and desired him to go about his business."
"very good, indeed, sir," observed young ashwoode.
"there is no occasion for commentary, sir," continued sir richard. "attend to what i have to say: a nobleman of large fortune has requested my permission to make his suit to your sister—that i have, of course, granted; he will arrive here to-morrow, to make a stay of some days. i am resolved the thing shall be concluded. i ought to mention that the nobleman in question is lord aspenly."
the young man looked for a moment or two the very impersonation of astonishment, and then, burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
"either be silent, sir, or this moment quit the room," said sir richard, in a tone which few would have liked to disobey—"how dare you—you—you insolent, dependent coxcomb—how dare you, sir, treat me with this audacious disrespect?"
the young man hastened to avert the storm, whose violence he had more than once bitterly felt, by a timely submission.
"i assure you, sir, nothing was further from my intention than to offend you," said he—"i am fully alive—as a man of the world, i could not be otherwise—to the immense advantages of the connection; but lord aspenly i have known so long, and always looked upon as a confirmed old bachelor, that on hearing his name thus suddenly, something of incongruity, and—and—and i don't exactly know what—struck me so very forcibly, that i involuntarily and very thoughtlessly began to laugh. i assure you, sir, i regret it very much, if it has offended you."
"you are a weak fool, sir, i am afraid," replied his father, shortly: "but that conviction has not come upon me by surprise; you can, however, be of some use in this matter, and i am determined you shall be. now, sir, mark me: i suspect that this young fellow—this o'connor, is not so indifferent to mary as he should be to a daughter of mine, and it is more than possible that he may endeavour to maintain his interest in her affections, imaginary or real, by writing letters, sending messages, and such manœuvring. now, you must call upon the young man, wherever he is to be found, and either procure from him a distinct pledge to the effect that he will think no more of her (the young fellow has a sense of honour, and i would rely upon his promise), or else you must have him out—in short, make him fight you—you attend, sir—if you get hurt, we can easily make the country too hot to hold him; and if, on the other hand, you poke him through the body, there's an end of the whole difficulty. this step, sir, you must take—you understand me—i am very much in earnest."
this was delivered with a cold deliberateness, which young ashwoode well understood, when his father used it to imply a fixity of purpose, such as brooked no question, and halted at no obstacle.
"sir," replied henry ashwoode, after an embarrassed pause of a few minutes, "you are not aware of one particular connected with last night's affray—you have heard that poor darby, who rode with me, was actually brained, and that i escaped a like fate by the interposition of one who, at his own personal risk, saved my life—that one was the very edmond o'connor of whom we speak."
"what you allude to," observed sir richard, with very edifying coolness, "is, no doubt, very shocking and very horrible. i regret the destruction of the man, although i neither saw nor knew much about him; and for your eminently providential escape, i trust i am fully as thankful as i ought to be; and now, granting all you have said to be perfectly accurate—which i take it to be—what conclusion do you wish me to draw from it?"
"why, sir, without pretending to any very extraordinary proclivity to gratitude," replied the young man—"for o'connor told me plainly that he did not expect any—i must consider what the world will say, if i return what it will be pleased to regard as an obligation, by challenging the person who conferred it."
"good, sir—good," said the baronet, calmly: and gazing upon the ceiling with elevated eyebrows and a bitter smile, he added, reflectively, "he's afraid—afraid—afraid—ay, afraid—afraid."
"you wrong me very much, sir," rejoined young ashwoode, "if you imagine that fear has anything to do with my reluctance to act as you would have me; and no less do you wrong me, if you think i would allow any school-boy sentimentalism to stand in the way of my family's interests. my real objection to the thing is this—first, that i cannot see any satisfactory answer to the question, what will the world say of my conduct, in case i force a duel upon him the day after he has saved my life?—and again, i think it inevitably damages any young woman in the matrimonial market, to have low duels fought about her."
sir richard screwed his eyebrows reflectively, and remained silent.
"but at the same time, sir," continued his son, "i see as clearly as you could wish me to do, the importance, under present circumstances—or rather the absolute necessity—of putting a stop to o'connor's suit; and, in short, to all communication between him and my sister, and i will undertake to do this effectually."
"and how, sir, pray?" inquired the baronet.
"i shall, as a matter of course, wait upon the young man," replied henry ashwoode—"his services of last night demand that i should do so. i will explain to him, in a friendly way, the hopelessness of his suit. i should not hesitate either to throw a little colouring of my own over the matter. if i can induce o'connor once to regard me as his friend—and after all, it is but the part of a friend to put a stop to this foolish affair—i will stake my existence that the matter shall be broken off for ever and a day. if, however, the young fellow turn out foolish and pig-headed, i can easily pick a quarrel with him upon some other subject, and get him out of the way as you propose; but without mixing up my sister's name in the dispute, or giving occasion for gossip. however, i half suspect that it will require neither crafty stratagem nor shrewd blows to bring this absurd business to an end. i daresay the parties are beginning to tire heartily of waiting, and perhaps a little even of one another; and, for my part, i really do not know that the girl ever cared for him, or gave him the smallest encouragement."
"but i know that she did," replied sir richard. "carey has shown me letters from her to him, and from him to her, not six months since. carey is a very useful woman, and may do us important service. i did not choose to mention that i had seen these letters; but i sounded mary somewhat sternly, and left her with a caution which i think must have produced a salutary effect—in short, i told her plainly, that if i had reason to suspect any correspondence or understanding between her and o'connor, i should not scruple to resort to the sternest and most rigorous interposition of parental authority, to put an end to it peremptorily. i confess, however, that i have misgivings about this. i regard it as a very serious obstacle—one, however, which, so sure as i live, i will entirely annihilate."
there was a pause for a little while, and sir richard continued,—
"there is a good deal of sense in what you have suggested. we will talk it over and arrange operations systematically this evening. i presume you intend calling upon the fellow to-day; it might not be amiss if you had him to dine with you once or twice in town: you must get up a kind of confidential acquaintance with him, a thing which you can easily terminate, as soon as its object is answered. he is, i believe, what they call a frank, honest sort of fellow, and is, of course, very easily led; and—and, in short—made a fool of: as for the girl, i think i know something of the sex, and very few of them are so romantic as not to understand the value of a title and ten thousand a year! depend upon it, in spite of all her sighs, and vapours, and romance, the girl will be dazzled so effectually before three weeks, as to be blind to every other object in the world; but if not, and should she dare to oppose my wishes, i'll make her cross-grained folly more terrible to her than she dreams of—but she knows me too well—she dares not."
both parties remained silent and abstracted for a time, and then sir richard, turning sharply to his son, exclaimed, with his usual tart manner,—
"and now, sir, i must admit that i am a good deal tired of your very agreeable company. go about your business, if you please, and be in this room this evening at half-past six o'clock. you had better not forget to be punctual; and, for the present, get out of my sight."
with this very affectionate leave-taking, sir richard put an end to the family consultation, and the young man, relieved of the presence of the only person on earth whom he really feared, gladly closed the door behind him.
